


A Quartet for the End of Year 2020 - HH

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The end of a difficult year produced a set of stories a bit more introspective than some.  I hope you find some enjoyment in them, and wish you the very best for the year to come.Story one references events in: 'Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town'.Story two references events in: "The Return of Otto Linkmeyer' and 'The Death of General Albert Burkhalter'
Kudos: 2





	1. Socks For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These short stories take place after the war.

They'd started receiving holiday cards - not many, being those weren't such a common thing, really, among the people they knew best; Clan O'Donnell celebrated the Solstices, not Christmas. Still, they had a few friends elsewise, and Andrew DID enjoy the cards and letters that showed up in the mail run. Christmas was a time when the run was a little heavier, much to Andrew's delight, though most of the cards arrived after the 25th, seeing as how they passed through a couple of general post office boxes and the various sortings done for safety's sake.

"Yippee!!!" Andrew exclaimed suddenly and far too loudly into the silent air, causing the heavy-lidded Newkirk to jump and splash coffee over the rim of his cup. 

"Andrew, please. Must you?" Newkirk groaned as he mopped up the spillage. "It's bloody five a.m.!"

"Yeah, but did you see??! Ian must have come by while we were gone! There's a whole stack of mail, and more CARDS! Christmas Cards, Peter! There must be six or seven even!"

"Lovely," Newkirk ground out, pouring out more coffee from the big blue-specked pot to make up for what he'd spilled. "You can tell me all about them later, eh? Later, being as in, not now, Andrew."

Obviously that subtle message didn't make it all the way across the table.

"Boy, you should see the one from Scotty Wilson! It's a real beaut!" Andrew exclaimed with glee as he lay that last card out on the table. "And there's a letter inside, a real long one! Want me to read it now??! Out loud, I mean?"

Newkirk gave him a baleful glare. "You think you can let me 'ave my coffee and maybe a smoke before you start expecting me to dance on the table top about a bloody Christmas card, Andrew? NO, I don't want you to 'read it now'!"

Not that Newkirk didn't think it was nice to get a few cards and letters; he had developed a whole new appreciation for such things while in Stalag 13, when mail call had been a cherished lifeline. 

However, he didn't wake up easy, preferred to take his time about it, and while he secretly thought of Andrew's morning chatter as his wake-up call, something far nicer than a bloody alarm clock, he'd prefer that to be without all the histrionics.

Still, while Andrew was having a glance at that letter, he took a quick look over at the card lying on the table. {"Don't see it's all that Christmassy, but attractive enough. If you like snow."}. 

It was a pretty enough card, depicting a farmstead drenched in heavy snow, a wagon and horses draped in evergreen wreaths and red ribbons, waiting at the door to the small house, supposedly for the happy family inside to take a ride in the lovely, lovely snow. He supposed that meant they liked snow. From those smiling faces at the windows, that looked to be the case. 

{"Well, they must, I suppose, if they're getting ready to go for a jaunt around in it. Doubt the 'orses are all that thrilled. Doubt they like snow nearly as much. Don't see any smiles on their faces, now do you? Look right pissed, even, especially that one on the right. Understandable, to my mind."}

He didn't, particularly. Like snow, that is. He shivered, his mind snapping back to slogging through snow in boots that did little to keep out the cold or the wet. Standing in the bloody stuff up to his ankles, sometimes halfway to his knees, til the Kommandant stopped his bloody prosing and let them get back inside. Might not be warm in that barracks, nor even particularly dry many a time, but except for where it blew in through an opened door, there wasn't any snow. And just about the time his feet had dried and thawed, there was the call again, for them to go out and repeat the whole senseless operation.

There had been times he'd been tempted to cut up the bottom of his greatcoat to make liners for his boots, but then the rest of him would have just complained, so he hadn't. Besides, woudn't have been right, just doing his own boots; what about the others? And there you go, the whole greatcoat would have been gone and him left shivering in his thin jacket.

Sometimes he thought going out on a mission was one of the better parts, what with getting to wear civilian clothes with a heavy jacket and farm boots, or that heavy wool coat with the fur collar, or maybe a snug kraut uniform with those heavy shiny black boots. He might have hated the sight of them, what they represented, but he had to admit they were warmer than what he was used to. But then again, all that extra was balanced by being OUT in the bloody cold and wet on a mission in the first place.

A sour liquid rose in his throat as memories forced their way to the forefront. He swallowed hard, tried to suppress all that, felt it was best, but once started, those memories seemed to have a mind of their own; it wasn't easy pushing them down again, making them retreat to that dark space at the back of his mind where he liked to keep such things.

He reached for his hand for his cup once again, stopped, stared at that extremity, wincing at the sight. His hands had probably come out of it the worst, other than his considerable collection of scars, but maybe that was because there was so much talent, so much agility to lose that when the inevitable losses came, it was all the more apparent, hurt all that much more. 

They'd recovered, to some extent, his hands, but still tended to seize up on him when they got too tired or too cold, and you could forget about asking him to pick a pocket or open a troublesome safe or manage a cunning forgery anymore. Still, they managed most things, could even turn out a few decent sketches on one of his better days, even with the early onset of arthritis, another lovely little souvenir of the camp.

His feet, now, they showed the effects of his ordeal too; enough that special comfrey creme Caeide made for him was a twice-daily routine. Otherwise those deep cracks would open up, start bleeding. She didn't let him forget, her or Andrew; most times, it was even one of them that took over that chore of massaging that creme in good and deep. 

{"Just one more way they 'ave of looking after me"} he thought with a reluctant smile. There were plenty of ways he made sure to look out for them, though, so he supposed it was alright, though at one time he'd have fought the notion of someone doing something that personal for independent him.

He wiggled his toes inside those heavy socks made of their own good wool. He used them double-layer - longer heavy ones next to his skin, shorter ones, just as heavy, over that first pair - which meant he didn't need boots inside the house. All but Maudie did that now and she used socks and slippers. For the rest, their boots were kept in a rimmed tray, all in a row by the back door bench, ready to be pulled on to go outside, to be left there when you came back inside. Kept the place cleaner, no doubt about that, and easier on the feet, though added to the washing, he supposed, though never a complaint there, either. He had no complaints about his feet, really; at least all he'd asked of them even before was to hold him upright without falling, suss out the cracks in the bricks of the buildings he was trying to climb, and since he wasn't doing much of the latter anymore, any loss of agility was just shrugged off. At least he'd come away with all of his toes, and not everyone he knew had.

Newkirk finished his coffee, glanced over to be sure Andrew was going to leave him alone in peace for awhile longer, then reached back to pull the coffee pot off the stove for a refill.

{"Now, 'e's frowning. Why's 'e frowning? Ain't like Andrew. Well, maybe it is, since it don't look like 'e's pissed, so much as confused. And that IS my Andrew,"} he hrumphhed to himself in a slightly amused fashion. 

Yes, the coffee was having its desired effect, and the cigarette he'd just lit, just pulled that first heavy early-morning dose from was helping too. {"Bloody 'ell, I'm almost mellow! Well, alright, so maybe not, but better than before."}

Finally, three puffs and two more heavy swallows in, he figured he was strong enough to give Andrew permission to start nattering on again. Besides, that frown was still sitting there, that same card held in his partner's hand, and he didn't much like it. Andrew should be giggling and laughing and bouncing with sharing all those bloody cards; wasn't right he wasn't.

"So, w'at's that one say, Andrew? Don't seem like you like it over much," he offered, now thinking to tip out another pouring of coffee into Andrew's cup, then into his own. A quick scraping back of his chair let him stand, reach into the warming oven for those breakfast thingies Caeide had made earlier before she started out on her rounds. He didn't know if they had a name; likely not, being as how they were just oversized baking power biscuits split open and topped with thick sausage patties and scrambled eggs with peppers and onions formed in the same sort of rounds. There was even a pitcher of her good sausage gravy sitting alongside. It was messy eating, but good, and she was likely to come back to find the pan and pitcher empty. 

She'd not frown at that, he knew; more likely to scold if there WAS any left. Seemed she never got over how thin they were when they'd arrived, first Peter, then Andrew - she and Maude and Marisol, always trying to add a few ounces on, worrying if they lost a bit in the hustle and bustle of working this place.

"I don't get it, Peter. I mean, it's like it's trying to be funny, but I don't get it," Andrew complained, taking a sip of his coffee, though looking with anticipation at that platter of food now being placed in the center of the table.

Newkirk picked up the card, looked carefully. A cheery room, curtained window showing (once again!) more snow! A Christmas tree, packages, and a large cat, black except for the white blaze on its chest and its four white paws, bright red ribbon around its neck, sitting there with an apprehensive look on its face. He read the caption written below 'Hope it's not SOCKS again!'.

Now he was frowning. No, he didn't get it either. "Not socks? That's w'at the bloody creature is 'oping? Why? Cause it's already wearing those white ones 'e was born with? Cause 'e's looking for something splashy instead?" Shrugging, he figured maybe he just hadn't had enough coffee, though between them, they'd nearly drained the large pot.

Opening the card, he saw the now-happy cat, grinning like a mad creature, prancing around the now-opened packages in a silly sailor's cap with bells on top and waving a bat-the-ball. "'NOT socks! Yippee'" he read. "Bloody cat needs 'is 'ead examined, if you ask me! Like that little 'at and toy's going to 'elp 'im much in all that snow!"

Andrew nodded, happier now that Peter shared in his confusion over that card.

"Boy! Remember that time back in camp, when Schultz brought those crates of socks that his wife and her friends made for us all? You wouldn't have seen any of us willing to exchange them for any little hat or a toy! First time my feet got CLOSE to being warm that whole winter!"

Peter frowned, "who the 'ell sent that one? Can't be anyone from the camp; they'd know better."

"But it was! Morgan, remember him? And I don't get it; he never stopped talking about the cold, even when it already turned spring!"

No, that wasn't understandable. 

"Short memory, seems like, Andrew," Peter offered. "Guess that means we don't up and send 'im one of those pair the ladies made. Lovely, thick and warm, those are, don't you think? Well, Caeide SAID that new flock was giving off something special in the way of wool, 'igher oil content, she claims, and there's the proof for you. Seem to just glide on, and can feel them smoothing out your skin just with the wearing. Says she and the others noticed a difference in their 'ands, too, with the working with it."

Peter and Andrew had been pleased enough to find those new pairs in their Solstice packages, along with the other things selected just for them. He knew those socks had gotten heavy use since then, with a heart-felt request for more, once the ladies got out their needles again.

Frankly, it was a little disappointing, thinking another alumnus of Stalag 13 would so quickly forget, be so quick to shunt aside what had been so important to the prisoners there.

It was only after Caeide came in from making her pre-dawn rounds that they discovered the small folded sheet of paper that had dropped unnoticed under the table, the note that had been included in that 'socks' Christmas card.

"Hi, guys! Merry Christmas. Saw this card and got chewed out by my sweet Lucy for cussing in the store! Bought it just to have proof something this damn stupid is really floating around out there! Well, I mean, can you believe it??! Guess whoever made THIS one up never was a guest of the krauts like we were, huh, guys?? My Lucy, now she understands, thank goodness. I got three packages under the tree, and one of them had three pairs of new socks - warm, thick, beautiful socks! Merry Christmas, guys. Wishing you and everyone else from the camp new socks for Christmas too!" - Morgan


	2. Shades of Gratitude

He woke in the darkness to the soft echoing of that voice from the past, the voice once again asking that favor. Well, two, three, maybe four favors all rolled up into one. He trembled under the warm covers, lay there, remembering his initial shock, way back then, at realizing who was asking the favor, what she was asking from him.

When Peter had explained, off in the tunnel when they were all alone, with that odd look on his face, that he had "met up with someone w'at needs a favor from you, Andrew. Told 'er I'd try and find a way for the two of you to talk it over. Well, not like I can promise for you, is it?" it had been a surprise on more than one level. Enough that Carter had frowned, puzzled. 

What could someone need from him, something Newkirk didn't feel comfortable vouching for his agreeing to. Newkirk knew him pretty good, better than most, even if not nearly as well as maybe the Englishman though he did. Anything Newkirk had figured was okay, thought Carter SHOULD do, why wouldn't Carter go along? Why had Newkirk pushed it off that way?

But he HAD. Had insisted the other person needed to ask Andrew face to face, and that Newkirk wanted Andrew to think real careful about what he might be promising. 

Making that extra trip outside the wire, or at least, that detour on the next simple job the Colonel sent them on, had been risky, and Newkirk had gotten more and more nervous as they approached that small house where a familiar face and form awaited them. Familiar, yeah, but sure not anyone he would have been expecting to see!

That wry smile on Gertrude Linkmeyer's face told him he hadn't hidden his shock all that well, both at her mere presence, then at what she had asked of him.

"Yes, Sergeant Carter. I realize it is a great deal to ask, both for myself and my brother. But perhaps not TOO much, eh? 

"Much of what we, he and I, have done for you and your friends - well, I will not trouble you with the details. I believe you are aware of at least part of what was risked on your behalf. Some might think the hand of luck was just firmly on your side, but I believe you, and your friend there," inclining her head toward the uncomfortable Newkirk standing off to the side, "I believe you are both too intelligent to assume it was merely luck. The phone call at just the right moment, Albert's insistence on stepping between the Gestapo, especially Hochstetter, and your energetic little group. His staunch denial, even ridicule of the very notion that the infamous Papa Bear and his men could be operating out of such a location. A taunting comment here and there to Kommandant Klink, one that caused him to lean in one direction or the other. And much more, wheels within wheels, things it would be not only imprudent to speak of, but would take far more time than would be wise to indulge in, here and now. Wheels involving him, nearly as many wheels involving me and quite a few others. Not every German believes in Hitler, you know; we fight as we can, and that sometimes is best done as shadows, perhaps even as shades."

"Shades?" he asked, wondering.

"Yes, the lingering remains of those who no longer walk this world, at least in the flesh. Have you never been on one of your little excursions and felt a presence at your shoulder? Has an unseen someone never whispered in your ear, telling you which way would be best at the crossroads? Has a sudden noise, the overturning of a glass or the dropping of a pen never distracted a hunter, allowing you to escape detection? Many of those who fought so bravely, who lost their fight at the hands of Hitler's mongrels - I believe they still walk the night, seeking to do what they can for this poor, ravaged land. This is OUR country, Sergeant, and we are its children, sworn to protect even unto death - even beyond.

"Ah, but we are getting away from the point of this meeting. I beg your pardon. I am getting old and find myself thinking of things like that on occasion, far more than I did in my youth."

Carter looked into those faded eyes, seeing the sharp intelligence, the wry humor she made such an effort to conceal behind that irascible demeanor. Well, maybe the being irascible was real enough; she did that really good, maybe too good for it to be an act. But even so, it was only a small part of who and what Gertrude Linkmeyer was. 

And she was right; he knew about a lot that she and General Burkhalter, her brother Albert, had done that got them out of a jam, lots of jams, and there probably HAD been a lot more that he never knew about. And what she was asking, for each of them, well, it made a heck of a lot of sense. THEIR luck would probably run out eventually; there were just too many people watching, trying to win points in Berlin by pointing their finger at someone. One last chance to thumb their noses at the guy with the little moustache? Yeah, he could see them wanting that, would like to be able to help if he could, though he really, really hoped it wouldn't come to that for them. Still, just in case . . .

"Soooooo, two sets of explosives - one small enough to conceal, smaller than my fist, enough for -" and he gulped, "well, for someone about your brother's size, but with a concussion effect big enough for a meeting room. A bigger one, enough for a house, disguised somehow, maybe as a music box or something like that." 

He was thinking out loud, frown of concentration on his narrow face.

"Poison, fast acting, with no side effects. Well," and his mouth twitched in inadvertent humor, "other than being dead, I mean. Concealed in a false tooth. I could do that, but I need the tooth to work with."

She nodded in agreement, reached into her purse. Both Newkirk and Carter tensed, waiting. They knew her - maybe. Trusted her - again, maybe. But still, no sense being idiots about it.

She gave a huff of amusement at their caution, though she could hardly blame them. 

"Here, it is an exact match for the one Albert wears," and she handed over a small lump in a wad of cotton.

"And the other, enough for two? To be taken with schnapps?" Carter asked.

"For myself, my mother. Although she know nothing of our activities, and I warn you, do not under ANY circumstances think to approach her or leave any messages with her. She worships Hitler; she would not hesitate to call the nearest Gestapo agent and turn you over to him. For that matter, she would probably turn Albert and myself over as well; we do not give her that opportunity. Still, I promised Albert she will not be left to face the fury once we are discovered."

In the end, he agreed, promised to get what was required back to her as soon as it was all completed.

And when he handed them over, explained what she needed to know about each, she'd smiled at him, nodded her thanks.

"And one last thing, Sergeant. Someday, if you survive this war, and I believe somehow that you will, remember us, will you? Those who worked in the shadows, those who perhaps walk or WILL walk as shades? We will get few accolades bestowed by our country, I am quite sure, no more than by our country's enemies. But there should be someone, don't you think, who remembers? Who gives some kind thought or word to those who betrayed their country in order to save their country?"

And Andrew had looked into those eyes, and he'd nodded, hard and fast. "I'll remember. I promise I will."

Now, laying there, looking out the window in a darkness lit only by the stars far above, he remembered - the shadows, the shades. 

Not just Albert Burkhalter, not just Gertrude Linkmeyer. All the others - those of the Underground, the shopkeepers, Oscar Schnitzer - the vet who also handled the guard dogs, the bartender and waiter at the local beerhall, the guards who did their duty just enough to keep from being shot or sent to the Russian Front, all so the prisoners might not suffer so much - so many, many others. Others without names, without faces, at least to him. Some had survived the war, many had not.

He struggled, knowing he'd never get back to sleep, and finally sighed and got up. Making his way to Caeide's room, hearing Peter stirring at the sound of doors quietly opening, closing.

"Aye, Andrew?" she whispered in the darkness. "Is something wrong?" she asked, pulling herself upright. He and Peter had left her bed only a few hours ago; for him to return was unusual.

He went closer, sat on the edge of the bed til she pulled the covers back, pulled him down to snuggle tightly against her. He heard the adjoining door open, knew Peter was there too.

"Is there something, a ceremony maybe, that lets you thank - well, the shades? Those who died, I mean? Or maybe those who are still walking in the shadows? Cause I got a lot of people I need to thank, though I don't know everyone's name, just some, and it seems wrong not to have a right way to do that."

Peter came closer, and the two in the bed inched backward to give him room to join them. 

And in the darkness of a Haven night, Andrew told them what Gertrude Linkmeyer had asked of him. 

"I mean, I remember them, alright, all the time. But I think maybe that's not enough. So I though, maybe . . ."

And, as might be expected in a people as old as Clan O'Donnell, there was indeed such a ceremony, a way of showing respect and gratitude and remembrance for those who had sacrificed, in a variety of ways, that others might have a chance to survive. 

And so it was on a chill New Year's Day at Haven, clear skies above, sea pounding against the cliffs below, voices were raised in words and song, accompanied by herb-filled smoke and the scent of long-past summer flowers. Raised to honor the shades of those who had walked in the shadows, had given their lives that these two men, and so many more - men, and women, and children - might live, might have a chance to build a new life past the fighting. Raised also to honor those who had survived to walk from the shadows into the light, and perhaps, some who remained in the shadows to continue the never-ending fight.

When it was done, when the last of the fragrant smoke had drifted off into the newly-formed clouds, Peter turned to Andrew with a trace of a smile.

"Think that did the trick, Andrew? Think she'd be 'appy with all that?"

And Andrew beamed at his partner, then over at the Clanswoman who'd helped make this possible. "I think she'd be real happy, Peter!"

And the soft murmur of the winter breeze as they made their way back to the house seemed to agree. And if you looked at those clouds just right, you could make out that pudgy face of Albert Burkhalter, and right alongside, his sister Gertrude, along with a tall, distinguished man in uniform. Somehow Andrew just knew that was her Otto, the husband lost at the Russian Front, the man she'd loved and waited for so faithfully.

"I think they'll ALL be real happy!"

"Come along, loves. There's hot coffee and whiskey and scones waiting down below," Caeide said, urging them onward with a warm smile. She too looked off into the clouds, raised her hand in a brief salute, one that seemed to be answered with a smile and a nod from each of the three waiting there, from the shadowy forms of a multitude of others too dim to make out, waiting in the background.

And so it was, from that day forward, at Haven. Each New Year's Day brought a repeat of the old ceremony giving thanks to those who walked in shadow, to those who now walked as shades - a ceremony that showed respect and honor to those who sacrificed so much that others might live.


	3. A Charitable Frame of Mind

Peter and Andrew cast a wary eye toward the Mistress of Haven; that frown DID look a little more puzzled than angry, but with Caeide, it sometimes didn't take much to go from one to the other. Oh, it was rarely at them, but it was only sensible to keep their heads down and out of the line of fire til they knew the cause for that frown.

"The Winthrop Fund," Caeide O'Donnell mused, re-reading that missive that had been delivered to her, noting the embossed letterhead, the fine grade of paper, the elegant script. 

"Who?" Maudie asked, looking up from her note-making.

"Well, that's what the letterhead says, 'The Winthrop Fund', with the modest claim of being the premier organization for 'the collecting, managing and dealing out of philanthropic fund to the worthy and deserving poor.' I've not heard of them before, but there's no reason for me to have, really. The charities I support know not to share my name or address, only to pass along any they consider I might wish to know about. I wonder what they want of me. Besides money, of course; that is a given. But this seem rather a lengthy correspondence just for that."

As she read further, she noted with rising indignation the magnanimous offer of assistance to the village, at least in its 'dispensing of charity as currently established'. Now she wondered once again what it was that had caught the attention of this organization, brought them to this out of the way place, for it seemed she was involved only as being a principal landowner. No, it was the village, the community itself that was the target, and not entirely for fundraising. 

And that WAS odd. The village was small and circumspect by nature, barely making it onto most maps, and frankly, she and the other inhabitants near about were just fine with that. In fact, they managed their affairs to make sure that was the case; if the village and homesteads, including Haven Farm, didn't see a need for you to know about the place, you most likely DIDN'T.

Oh, she had heard of John Winthrop, the Puritan leader, his thoughts and views, as that was where that tiny bit at the bottom of the stationary proclaimed the organization got its inspiration, but this was the first she'd heard of the Winthrop Fund. 

Well, she kept herself apart from the Outlanders as much as reasonably possible. She had knowledge of such, since that was part of the required schooling as provided by Clan O'Donnell, but for the most part, she felt she and hers were better off with less rather than more contact. The war had provided more than enough of that to suit her limited tastes, and she had more than enough on her plate to keep her otherwise occupied.

"Well, we have no need of their charity or their opinions. Certainly no need of their 'requirements', or solutions to problems that don't exist," she remarked with a sound of annoyance. 

"Charity," she said scornfully. "THEY may call it 'charity', but the way they describe it - did you know the Clan has no word for that Outlander concept? We try to see that those within our sphere have what they need to live a decent life. We ask each to provide for themselves, just as we provide for ourselves, as far as that is possible or feasible. But it is NOT always possible, not for everyone, not even for ANYone, not at all times. Whether it be shelter, or sustenance, or clothing, perhaps encouragement, an opportunity to learn and grow, everyone within the Clan and its circle of influence has needs, and it is to no one's benefit for those needs to go unmet. And some things are simply best dealt with as a community as a whole - is each individual to dig and lay their own portion of road through the village, or each hand over pounds to tempt the rail to make its stop here? And charity, that is something quite often best dealt with as a whole.

"But THIS bit of impertinence!" she shook the paper in disgust. "Telling me that, 'while individuals and communities often TRY to deal charitably with the less-fortunate, sometimes they mistake the true purpose of charity'. That 'charity must be given to the worthy, less the unworthy cease striving to improve; that independence is as equal a goal as sustenance, and one should not attempt to provide the latter without requiring the former as well, for that brings only moral corruption'. Well, thank you, Mr and Mrs. Marston of the Winthrop Fund for so kindly explaining that to this foolish person who thought charity was to be given freely from the heart and spirit!"

Maude, now shifted from note making to her cutting up of the apples from that overflowing basket, had to wonder at that snarl underlying the redhead's voice.

"That spells out their requirements? And what solutions? I thought things were doing well," she asked, having been woolgathering somewhat, wondering whether she should start gathering up things for the Vincent Booth next, or take time to check on those small rounds of cheeses first, to see if they were at the proper stage of aging for them to start making their appearance on the table. After all, a few of those were always appreciated at the booth as well as at home. And she really needed to check the linen storeroom above; two new ones were added to the Orphanage and there would likely be a need for extra sheets and such, and possibly at the Elder House as well.

"Oh, aye. In return for their generous support from funds gathered from their benevolent donors , there are several 'requirements', including their being given a list of those currently receiving benefits at the Elder House and the Orphanage and their attributes. It seems this Mr. and Mrs. Marston wish to make their own determination as to their 'eligibility'. 

"They are just full of suggestions, if you wish to call them that. There is this one, that the children be divided into age groups, with ideas of how each group could be set to providing revenue, all in the name of 'establishing a sense of responsibility and self-respect, and paying something toward their keep'. The list starts with the ones approaching their eighth birthday. It should be noted that it is to cease with those now fifteen, since those apparently should be firmly shown the door to 'stop them battening on charity best reserved for those less capable of making their own way.' Oh, and that the children should cease attending school on a daily basis, like any others in the area, since that is 'unnecessary burden on both the educational system and on the orphans, since the former has its own responsibilities and the latter are not in a position to make appropriate use of such benefits' anyway."

Maude frowned, "but the children DO help, either in the gardens, or in the orchards around, or in helping keep the place tidy. Well, NONE of our youngsters, there or elsewhere, are idle layabouts! Are they really suggesting the youngsters be put out to service?"

"Oh, yes. There is a list of establishments in London and elsewhere they feel would be appropriate for such employment; for a small fee, the Winthrop Fund will be quite willing to act as intermediary. They generously suggest a few shillings of the earnings might be given into a fund for the children's eventual benefit when they leave the Orphanage, that also to be managed and eventually distributed by the Fund. But the majority of any compensation would flow to the Winthrop Fund as well, to, of course, be further distributed to whoever they install as the governor of the home. Apparently Mr and Mrs. Hays are not deemed suitable."

Maude looked incredulous, "I thought indentured servitude was a thing of the past! Well, perhaps not in the East End, though it's on a far more informal basis there." She snorted, "everything's on a more informal basis there, of course."

"So, the Orphanage is to vet them, take them in, get them sorted out, then parcel them back out to various jobs of work? Bloody 'ell, they 'ave their way, there'd be none left there but the little tikes," Peter wondered. "All kinds of restrictions, only those of a certain age, no schooling to be given. Kind of takes away the purpose, now doesn't it? More like a warehouse, taking in goods, sending them back out again. All the w'ile taking in a good commission in each direction, most likely!" He wasn't impressed, and neither was anyone else from the looks of it.

Caeide glanced down at the paper in her hand.

"And the Elder House, they've not overlooked the possibilities there either. Only those with proven familial ties in the region are to be accepted, otherwise we'll see the riff-raff from elsewhere coming in to take advantage. Any existing assets of anyone newly arrived are to be liquidated and the proceeds sent to the Fund to supplement their future support. Oh, and here are ideas of sources of possible revenue as well, weaving looms to be installed and much else. And it would appear if someone has no such assets, and hasn't the capability of adding to the revenue, there are one or two gently-worded ways to let the petitioner know there simply is no place available at this time, "perhaps at a later date?" As well as ways to, perhaps more firmly, inform those already in residence that the space is needed for more 'deserving' occupants and they should find another place to be. I'll not even go into their suggestions for the Vincent Booth!!"

The Vincent Booth had been in existence for a long time. Goods - mostly foodstuffs - were donated from those who had, the booth itself being manned by volunteers. The goods were sold at a discounted price to others in the area. The proceeds went to support the Elder House and the Orphanage, and any goods left unsold also made their way to those two establishments. Along with, of course, goods donated directly for daily requirements to eke out what the gardens produced.

"Proven familial ties to the region," Andrew said with a worried look. "What about Ms. Essie?"

Well, the woman had arrived, congenial but totally unknown, both to anyone there or even to herself, having wandered aboard the train somewhere along the route, with nothing to show who she was or where she'd come from or where she was bound. She'd drifted OFF the train at the station with no more clue than the small elderly case in her hand that bore a proud metal insignia that proclaimed it a 'Traveler's Essential'. That had been four or five years ago, and since no one could think of anything better, she'd been settled into the Elder House, and had become a comfortable, cheerful fixture, now wearing the name Ms. Essie Traveler.

"Oh, I'd not like to guess, at least if we let them get away with this impertinent interference in what is clearly none of their concern! Which, of course, we're not!" Caeide said firmly.

"Oh, and the last part. How they will 'of course' set up a conscription program locally, determining what level of support should be forthcoming from each household in the community. Which, again, THEY will collect and administer! Can they any more clearly say their intentions??! Do these people actually get away with any of this nonsense elsewhere??!"

Caeide was fuming now, enough the others could almost see the tendrils of smoke arising from that red head.

"How do you intend to reply, Caeide dear? Best have us look over any answer you make before you send it off. You do struggle with making a civil response to such foolishness," Maude asked with a knowing laugh.

Peter and Andrew shared a wide grin, and Peter chimed in. "W'at Maudie's trying to say, luv, is that you don't do subtle all that well. Want me to give it a try?" he offered, that getting an even broader laugh. 

Of course, Andrew's offer had brought a similar response.

Well, Peter Newkirk wasn't exactly known for being subtle either; a quick fist to the jaw or a quick jab with his 'pencil sharpener' was far more his style. He'd never been a great fan of ambiguity, felt there were too many opportunities for misunderstandings there. Just ask that bloke Banting who'd come to interview for the position of school master, not that there was an opening, Mr. McKendries doing a fine job and not having any desire to leave. 

The first Haven knew of it was when a scowling Davy Rhys informed them of the oh-so-superior personage who'd had a quiet chat with Mr. McKendries, pointing out the young man's supposed shortcomings and overall unsuitability for such a post. Cory McKendries had been in a taking, not knowing his efforts had been remarked as inadequate, and had appealed to Davy Rhys over a quiet mug. Rhys had checked around, found NO level of discontent, the children being well up to their level, or on their way there for the outliers who were new to the concept of a regular classroom.

"And there's something cavey about this one, to my mind. Who comes in and tries to take someone else's position without even a nod from those involved? Seems he was hoping to get young Cory so discouraged, thinking we were unhappy with him but not wanting to tell him so, that he'd just pack up and leave. We would have been anxious to take up this Banting on his offer to fill in, or so HE thought!"

Peter had a quiet little word (sic) with the encroaching Mr. Banting, the upshot being the battered and bruised scoundrel abandoned his idea for doing a quiet little procuring from the London specialty brothels while establishing an out-of-the-way spot to avoid the authorities who might take exception to his activities, and fled in a panic.

And as for Andrew, the family was still laughing about that sharpster of a middle-man for a certain Edinburgh purveyor of market goods and his encounter with Andrew Carter. Seems the man had heard a bit about Haven Farm, enough to know that dealing with Peter Newkirk or Caeide O'Donnell was unlikely to be profitable to his bottom line. 

"Now, the other one up there, Andrew by name, a sweet lad he is. He's a bit, well, simpler in his ways, if you know what I mean, at least in some ways." That's what the sharpster had been told, and had somehow managed to misinterpret 'simpler' as being 'simple'. He'd waited til he saw the other two head out in the cart headed to the village and confidently made his way to the front door, all set to make a highly-profitable business arrangement. Well, profitable to him, anyway, and once the paperwork was signed, what were the others to do about it anyway?

Maude had kept to the kitchen but listened carefully, enough she was gleefully able to spell out all the details for the others over afternoon tea. "The lad kept talking til even I was getting confused, even with me knowing Andrew as well as I do! A pure delight it was, listening to all that, then peeking around the corner to see the man's eyes starting to glaze over. Still, never seen a man with a more satisfied air about him when he left, being sure he'd pulled a fast one on our Andrew! Left quickly enough when he heard the horses out back, likely wanting to be gone before anyone came in and caught him at his sly dealings!"

Caeide read, then re-read that contract, shaking her head with amazement. 

"Peter, this is a quarter-again what I'd have thought to bargain anyone to, even for all but the prime of the crop, and we're already committed there to what we'll harvest past our own use and for gifting and such. And 'Chikala apples', Andrew? We grow five varieties of apples here, not counting that new expansion of Bardsey Isle's where there's no harvest expected for another two years at least, and none of them I've ever heard of as being called that!"

Andrew grinned a slightly-wicked grin, a look Newkirk knew quite well, one he'd first encountered after an early bit of mischief back in Stalag 13. 

"It means 'littlest' in Sioux; a runt, you know? That's what my dad always called apples we'd pick up that he said weren't worth even bothering to carry home." 

He shrugged as they took that in, then went on. "He, that guy, I mean, maybe, well, probably, thought it was some fancy, real special kind of apple, though I swear I never SAID that! I wouldn't, you know! But I figured the apples that are too small for much anything else, even making cider, the ones we usually compost or use for the cows and sheep, since we always have way too many to use anyhow, if he's willing to make a contract to buy them, why not? I mean, I even motioned to the basket over in the corner, so he'd know what I was talking about. And since he wasn't going to take no for an answer . . ."

Peter Newkirk shook his head in wonderment, "you mean that basket of culls sitting alongside the basket of those prime Gwell Na Mil's being sent to that fancy posh place Meghada got us 'ooked up with??! The culls we're intending for the pigs?? Sometimes, Andrew, sometimes! But guess it just goes to prove w'at I've always said, of all your talents, and you've more than your share, your biggest 'as to be your way of confusing anyone past being able to think straight!" 

And that assessment would have gotten no argument from anyone in the family! Indeed, they all adopted that word 'chikala' for the tiny waste apples, remembering that episode every time they used it thereafter and getting a laugh at the doing. Though it was Peter and Caeide who dealt with the indignant man who showed up to protest the quality of the apples he'd been sent in exchange for that hefty bank draft. There would be no more shipments, no more bank drafts, at least from that source, but they'd still added a goodly sum to their OWN bottom line for the season from that little transaction. AND taught the townie a little lesson in humility!

Thinking of that little episode had Caeide considering, just for a minute or two, LETTING Andrew deal with these outsiders, but thought better of it. THEY might not deserve better but Andrew surely did!

She shook her head, "no, and it would appear it's not a subtle or soft response that is needed. This bit of impertinence was accompanied by a separate note from the Reverend. It seems he was approached first, and finding his own quite solid arguments in vain, directed them on to me. As he puts it, "the good lord has advised me to keep a better watch on my hasty tongue. Since you are not bound by such restraints, I humbly suggested they must contact you instead, yours being the 'voice of authority' for such matters locally. Do forgive me, my dear, but I already spend enough time on my knees asking forgiveness for my failings. In fact, I am headed that way now, for giving myself the self-indulgence of placing this on your plate, as well as getting a headstart on asking forgiveness for the amusement I will most certainly obtain from whatever results."

That garnered a laugh from everyone, and Caeide sat down to pen a polite but firm refusal of that offer of largesse. She sincerely hoped that would be the end of the matter, but she was resigned to that not being the case. As she told everyone at supper, "well, there are those who know how to read the weather by a sniff of the breeze; there are others who need to step into a foot of snow to start thinking of winter."

There was something going on with Haven Farm and its owner, Caeide O'Donnell, something unpleasant. Something they could perhaps use to their own advantage, too. That was obvious to Marion Marston and her husband, Regents (indeed, the Founders) of the Winthrop Fund, the charitable fund investigating whether the local Elder House and Orphanage should be the beneficiary of their largessse. 

That was their specialty, finding small out of the way places who were struggling to maintain individuals who had no one else - finding, setting lines of support, soliciting contributions from the well-to-do donors most likely to feel inclined to show their generosity in such ways. Ways that didn't require anything other than an occasional donation in return for being able to proclaim their generosity in whatever way best suited them. The Marstons managing, in the process, to feather their own nest quite nicely. Well, no one could expect them to go to all that bother without SOME reward! Charity, it was said, DID begin at home!

But as for this Mistress O'Donnell who'd so firmly and incomprehensibly turned away their generous offer - Well, as Marion remarked indignantly over the tea cups, it should have been obvious to ANYONE with half an eye there was something going on there. 

No matter what these illiterate villagers claimed, the woman was being mistreated, even abused, that much was certain. ANY woman would be more than pleased to have such a burdonsome responsibility lifted from her shoulders, would not have hesitated to embrace the services of the Winthrop Fund with open arms. NO, there had to be another influence there, probably a man, and one with a heavy hand. Probably the man already had his game in place, was raking in his odd bit here and there, and wasn't inclined to have any interference.

Yes, Mistress O'Donnell was probably getting the rough side of SOMEONE'S hand, alright!

That really wasn't their line, of course; there were no 'abused female' houses on their list of potential recipients for the funds they administered. Such didn't gather the interest or the approval of those who made it a practice of donating to charitable causes, not like homes for abandoned or orphaned children or the aged. Most, in fact, thought what happened between a woman and her husband was private, not for interferring with. And anything between a woman and someone NOT her husband, well, a proper woman wouldn't be bringing such onto herself in those circumstances anyway.

But still, they found it offensive that the constable and the local minister kept referring them to that woman, that 'Mistress Caeide O'Donnell', as if she were a power locally, when she obviously had no power to even keep herself safe. Especially when their very reasonable list of 'recommendations' for the local charitable establishments, recommendations, (actually requirements), made in exchange for their very generous proposal for charitable support, came back with a polite note, basically saying 'Thanks, but no thanks. We take care of our own.' 

They were not used to such total dismissal, but then, they weren't used to a woman being considered the local 'power' either. There was obviously something off-kilter about this whole situation.

They'd talked to several people, but found the locals oddly unwilling to give out much information, all saying basically the same thing, that all was well with Haven Farms, its mistress and everyone else there. The gradually acquired list of who that 'everyone' entailed, that was something else that they frowned at. They'd had to go quite far afield to get even scraps of more detailed information, and even piecing all of those together with the threads they'd gleaned locally, it was nothing like a clear picture, but even from what they could tell, it was inappropriate. Yes, an uncomfortable situation to say the least.

But the most troubling part was that firm insistence by Mistress Caeide O'Donnell on refusing the charity they were offering on behalf of the local Elder House and Orphanage. 

Truly that was an odd thing. Usually, when you waved the possibility of money under someone's nose, they lost any inhibitions about accepting it. But not in this case. 

Yes, they thought, that must be due to the influence of others, those who might not like the idea of the Regents of the Winthrop Fund taking too close a look at Haven Farm, maybe even too close a look at the two charitable institutions in the village. Well, perhaps three, if you took into account that loosely-managed Vincent Booth on market day, another supposedly charitable endeavor.

Yes, there might be certain games being played with each of those three established parts of village life, and who more likely than those at Haven Farm. Oh, doubtful it was the O'Donnell woman, but still, there were others there who would know how to turn a profit on such. Well, THEY certainly knew how to turn a profit on such enterprise, didn't they, having had a great deal of practice?

Yes, there were untoward things going on with Haven and its mistress, no matter what these naive locals thought. It was clear enough to anyone with a more sophisticated eye, and the appearance of the woman at the housegoods store this morning completed the picture for Marion and Judd Marston.

Well, what other explanation could there possibly be??! The woman was moving quite stiffly, and her face! Obviously someone had taken their fist to her, and not just once.

And that story she'd poured out to the sympathetic woman at the counter!! Well, that was typical, a bunch of nonsense most likely, an excuse to cover up what was really going on. Of course, Marion and Judd hadn't heard the whole thing, had come in just in time for the rueful ending.

"It was my own fault, Madge, no question there. I've lived with them long enough, KNEW risking their temper was foolish. Still, I was in a hurry, thought I could push the boundaries just a little, maybe just get them humming with annoyance but nothing more. 

"I'll not try that again, I promise you that! Not that I wish them ill, you understand; it's not their fault they've such nasty tempers or are so easily offended. Still, I must admit, I'd not quarrel with them if they decided to move farther up into the hills, not be right alongside."

Marion and Judd took one knowing look and decided it was only their duty to step in. After all, if she realized they were her allies, she might change her mind about turning down their offer of aid locally. 

That was important for various reasons. First, the more recipients they could list on their vitae, the more their esteem grew in their narrow community of do-gooders. The more their esteem grew, the greater the contributions from those who liked to deal with their charity at arms-length. And, of course, unsaid but not forgotten, the more they could skim from the various segments of that charitable pool they managed with such firm hands. Well, after all, those funds were intended for the worthy poor, and if Marion and Judd were not poor - not by any wild stretch of the imagination - who, precisely, could be considered more WORTHY??

A swift approach got a polite nod of Caeide O'Donnell, her with the battered face, but no gratitude ensued, only a puzzled look and assurances that, despite appearances, she was quite well. The blunt references to those two scoundrels who, according to a few tidbits garnered from a source a few villages over, were battening off her, had been doing so for years now, those seemed to pass totally over her head, other than to get a flicker of an annoyed frown.

Marion tensed her lips, "yes, we understand your hesitation in discusing such a private matter. But avoiding the issue is hardly helpful, my dear Miss O'Donnell. Just look at yourself! Just listen to yourself!"

Judd took over. Well, HE'D been able to get details he hadn't yet shared with his wife, not thinking such things were seemly. Now it seemed it was necessary to bring up those unpleasant subjects, just to get through to this stubborn woman and quickly. After all, they had a schedule to keep, hadn't intended to stay in this out of the way place even as long as they already had! Efficiency, that was the key! Straight to the point, that was the way to a steady and profitable bottom line!

And so he took it upon himself to lay out boldly all he'd been told, all he'd guessed from filling in between those lines, watching those brown eyes widen with surprise. 

{"Ah, I suppose she thinks no one knows what's been going on. That what comes of deceiving yourself, you think everyone else is being deceived as well! If she cannot see more clearly than that, how on earth do they allow her to speak for them here in this place? If we can make her see the light with that, her own circumstance, then surely she will see the light about the job we're intending to do here!"}

Caeide's protests now had run the gamut from surprise at being so rudely ambushed by these two strangers while she was trying to do her shopping, to indignation at anyone thinking to mind her business, never MIND the mud being slung at her family.

Now, reluctantly, she was starting to see some humor in the situation, though still inclined toward resenting them and their busybodiness, at least where she was concerned. If they'd been speaking up on the behalf of someone else, someone truly in dire straits, she might have found it to be a far more worthy thing, but they weren't. And besides, she was becoming more and more suspicious of this pair of Outlanders and their motives, no matter how honorable they tried to make themselves sound.

Still, her equally blunt, "all is well with me and mine. I am fine; all is just as it should be. You need not, indeed I INSIST you not trouble yourselves in my affairs," was ignored.

That superior sneer was real, cutting ugly lines in the not-unhandsome face of the man bracing her.

"Of course you are 'doing fine'; the situation 'just as it should be'!! Those men! You wrap them in cotton wool, treat them as favored children, from all I've heard! They can do no wrong, or so you claim, no matter how outlandish the nonsense they get up to! Why wouldn't THEY be 'doing fine'?? But the situation? But you? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Don't try and tell me those bruises are not painful enough to remind you? How on earth did they even MANAGE those lumps? What did they strike you with? I've never seen injuries quite LIKE those!! And which one of them was the cause of your eye being purple and blackened and swollen shut?? Not that I really have to ask, do I? From what I've heard, the Cockney has an uncertain temper at best, but it speaks no good of the American if he lets the other get away with this!"

Marion decided to put in her ten-shillings worth. "And I've heard there are children involved out there! Never mind the deplorable circumstances of their birth, do THEY get this same heavy-handed treatment? If you won't act on your own behalf, act on theirs!! We can call in the authorities if the local constable won't step in! We can have those two out and gone in a trice, with strict orders never to return!"

Judd was quick to add, "and as for needing help afterwards, yes, well, that is obvious. We know any number of good men who would be appropriate for us to put in place as the manager of your farm. They would report directly to us, we would handle all the details."

He refrained from mentioning some of those details would be the financial end of things since he'd heard that farm of hers was worth a goodly sum, very productive, with a firm reputation for the goods provided from there.

Caeide blinked with the two with one good eye, squinting to look at those determined eyes glaring at her. {"Polite, not so polite. Subtle, not so subtle. Oh, what the hell! I'll try for something a bit different. At least it will give the lads something to laugh about,"} as she gave a certain discreet signal to those now standing by the entrance. 

The newcomers had arrived so quietly, the two Londoners hadn't even noticed, or if they had, paid them no mind. Caeide had, of course, and perhaps that directed her response to some extent.

"The odd looking injuries?" she sighed. "Oh, yes. That sharp burning instrument I'd just as soon not experience again, I must admit. And I didn't know a name is embroidered under the eye or along the cheek, but I'll admit it feels as if it could be. BOTH names, as it were."

A quick gasp of shock left the rouged lips of the woman. "INSTRUMENT??! You were struck with an INSTRUMENT??! And BOTH? They both struck you? How horrifying!"

"Yes, it did get a little hot and heavy there for awhile, me screeching, ducking, trying to get away. Then things flying, fists whaling away," she admitted. "Quite a scene, I'm sure!"

Then, with a wry smile, she looked down at the newcomers standing by the doorway, all four of them looking at the two Outlanders with a decided lack of enthusiasm. Marion and Judd followed her gaze, looking with incomprehension at the four children standing there, two of them smaller images of the woman they were beleaguering.

"Didn't it, loves? I would have loved to have had a moving picture of the whole thing! Perhaps Peter will draw a few pictures of the whole thing. We could put it in another of our books, perhaps," Caeide chuckled wryly. 

Jamie, their oldest son, protested, "didn't MEAN to knock down the 'ornets' nest, mum, and get the w'ole lot swarming about! Didn't mean to poke you in the eye neither - was just trying to get that bloody bastard before 'e stung you!" 

Earnest blue-green eyes showed his repentance, though well mixed with seething anger at the two thinking to tell his mum her business AND saying such things against Da and Daddy Andrew. He was sporting a few swollen spots on his face, obviously the results of those hornets not just zeroing in on Caeide.

Karl's brown eyes looked up as he nodded earnestly, resisting with great effort the desire to snarl at those encroaching Outlanders. "And thought you'd SEE me swinging the broom at the rest of them; figured you'd duck, you see?" He had a few stings as well.

Louisa and Kat stood back with smug satisfaction that THEY hadn't been a party to that wild encounter. 

"Though have to admit your face does look a sight, Mum. Doubt Da and Daddy Andrew will be all that easy when they catch a glimpse. Course, it IS their fault in a way; they'd talked about getting rid of those hornets before they left for Llwelling, but never quite got around to it. They knew you were of two minds about it anyway, thinking the winged ones had a right to their place as much as any other, no matter how close to the pathway it was." That was all from Kat, the younger of the two O'Donnell daughters.

Louisa stood and nodded in big-sisterly agreement, and took a long, measuring look at the two Outlanders, addressing them firmly. 

"Acourse, doubt they'll be all that pleased to hear the nonsense you two have been handing around, either. If you're no more canny than that, have to wonder at you being in charge of much of anything, people or funds. Maybe someone ought to take a look at that, Mum. We know people in London who could deal with that, right? Could be all sorts of odd things going on with them and that Fund of theirs. Imagine there's all kinds of ways to diddle the pot, if you were of a mind to," the girl offered and the knowing look in those brown eyes snapped Marion and Judd out of their stunned state. Well, Louisa was boding to be a power in her own right, as were the rest of the children, but the oldest daughter seemed to have even less use for subtlety than her mother, which was pretty much damn-all.

"Hornets?" Marion offered in a squeak, giving Judd an apprehensive look.

"Hornets," Caeide acknowledged, with a regal nod, that accompanying smile having not the least bit of warmth or sincerity behind it. 

No, as Madge told the Constable later, "icy cold, it was, and full of such intent that I'd not be sleeping any too well if it had been directed at me! Well, I can't say the looks that precious pair were getting from the children were any more kindly. Packed up and were gone within the hour, from what I heard! Though I did get the feeling Caeide thought Louisa had the right of it, about someone needing to take a closer look at those two and their doings. Imagine she'll know just the one to handle that. A right knowing one, our Caeide."

And while Peter and Andrew were rightly sorry about not dealing with those hornet before they left, they thought the rest of the family had dealt with those pesky Outlanders quite well on their own.


	4. All The Comforts Of Home

Haven was a rich place, at least in the ways that mattered to those who lived there, and that now included Peter Newkirk and Andrew Carter. The farm produced much of what it used, distributed much of what it produced to those others of the Clan who could claim 'shares', as well as contributing generously to the support of Elder House and Orphanage in the village. All in all, Haven provided all the comforts of home - all those who lived there could rightly want or expect.

Still, as rich as it was, there were three months in which there was a vast difference in what was put to the table and even in their usual routine - December, January, February. Oh, not for the full of those months, but for the fourth week of each month, that simply was the way it was.

The first year it happened, even though Caeide had spoken of the tradition, the two men were shocked when they sat down to table that first morning of the fourth week in December.

Peter looked at the meager offering, looked up with incredulous and outraged eyes. "You 'AVE to be joking, right? There's not enough there to keep a bird alive, and that's if said bird was willing to eat W'ATEVER that is!!" 

Breakfast, it would seem, consisted of a portion of poached duck egg - not even a WHOLE duck egg - atop a nest of spicy greens of some sort. Not even GARDEN greens, but wild things like chickweed and nettles, and Peter was sure part of that was even SEAWEED!

Andrew's face was just as disappointed, though Maude and Marisol seemed a little amused, if resigned. It wasn't as if they hadn't been warned of this; it just seemed the men either hadn't been listening, or had simply blocked out the reality of what they had been told.

Caeide just looked at him calmly. "You were told of this, Peter. 'Tis the first of the Sairsen weeks. This one now, the next the fourth week in January, the last the fourth week in February. These are the weeks when we remember the wisdom of those who lived on this land before, things they learned at often high cost to themselves. We reacquaint ourselves with what is out there in the way of sustenance, sometimes hidden right beneath our eyes, how to gather it, how to prepare it, how to let it suffice."

She knew they'd be no more pleased with the slender meal at the nooning, or the even more sparse offerings at the dinner hour.

Yes, she did understand their dismay; what was being presented to them, what WOULD be presented to them, was vastly different from the comfortable meals usually provided, certainly the special treats laid before them during the Solstice celebration, and then their Christmas holiday Haven had recently adopted in at least a minor way. She was already making concessions in not removing the whiskey from reach, even keeping the bourbon she preferred on the back of the bar as well. And the medicinal herbs stayed in place, of course, including the comfrey creme Peter used daily, and the lung tea they pumped into him whenever they (if not he) felt it was needed.

Still, the old ways had their reason and their purpose, and she had no intention of letting those lapse. Haven, indeed each of the Enclaves, were set in areas of rich resources, purposefully so, but no such place was free from hardship in certain years. Generally not in the SAME year, but that was not beyond imagining. War, a wide-ranging disease - there was much that could stress the resources of any number of the Enclaves.

Even as favored as Haven or the other Enclaves might be, weather and fortune wise, there were lean years; history bore that out. Seed sometimes proved less viable than expected, and if that turned out to be the fault of the supplier, well, that supplier found themselves losing a customer forthwith. Should it be a matter of the variety diminishing its vigor, which did happen sometimes, a great scurry of activty was involved in finding new, more promising varieties for the following year. Haven, being wise in the way of things, never depended solely on one variety of any crop, certainly no one crop, and took care to keep the varieties well separated as to not degrade the viability of any, so they had more than one string to their bow for all the things they depended on. Still, any failure of a crop to produce, for whatever reason, interfered with the plans for any given year, since it was not only those who lived at Haven who depended on that harvest.

The Sairsen weeks were meant to remind them of that, the possibility of failure to one extreme or another, to remind them of ways to endure and make it through to the other side. That was why the months of December, January and February had been chosen, so many many years ago. For while times of want could come at any time, things being what they were, the most likely times were the cold harsh months of winter. And the Clan made sure that the people remembered how others had survived those hungry times. No, not just remembered, but put into practice those ways, so that they might not be totally unfamiliar, on a day-to-day, practical way, with those methods of coping, should the need arise again. For there was a heirarchy of distribution for what each Enclave produced, though with reason being applied - those who dwelt elsewhere but depended on that Enclave for either shares or charity came first, the Enclave providing for their own but with as stringent methods as might be required.

And so Caeide stood firm, Maude kept to what Caeide determined was to reach the table, though both doing their best to present that in as pleasing a way as possible. Even so, Andrew lost a few ounces during each of those weeks. For Peter, it was into the pounds, him and his touchy appetite and finicky stomach. 

Still, it was as Caeide determined, and though everyone was more than happy when the Sairsen week was done for each of those three months, especially glad to see the last of the three, February, behind them, they ate what was put before them. Sometimes with a sour look on their faces, often with a puckery look about their mouths, but they ate, and neither man went so far as to plan a midnight raid on the locked pantry or the storage cellars. They weren't sure what Caeide's reaction would be, but Maude had threatened them with a total absence of treats for the NEXT three months if they dared such action. 

Two years they'd suffered through Caeide's Sairsen, becoming resigned if not pleased at the prospect.

Then came one of those years, one she'd told them about, and one where the Enclaves of Clan O'Donnell were more widely-affected than any in recent history, with Haven leading the rest. 

That far orchard, usually yielding a harvest so rich they were hard-pressed to put into full use, had yielded a few pans of fried pears, but the rest were of a size and quality that seemed usable only for the stock, as they were acidic and heavy with tannins. The apples had done moderately well, and the stone fruit, but while the turkeys and ducks and chickens had laid eggs aplenty, few had hatched out due to that clever and rascally marauder, a marten from the trail, who'd raided the clutches. They had been able to trap the beast, but only after the damage was done. The sheep had produced their fleeces heavy and deep, but you couldn't eat wool, and the prices had gone down since most with such herds had also had an excellent year. The same with the flax field; needed, of course, for cloth, but not edible, in the general run of things. 

And that wasn't the end of it, enough the office saw its share of groans and moans as the figures were tabulated as the harvest drew to a close. It was obvious there was going to be some serious belt tightening going on for the next several months. Shelves that normally would be well-laden with jars and bins would be at less than quarter strength; there were whole sections in the storage cellar that sat bare. And, needless to say, though it was said of course, the cash box was at a far lower level than usual.

Well, there was reason enough for all the bemoaning. After the 'shares' had been calculated, cash and 'in kind', those had to be reduced as well, since you could hardly distribute what wasn't there - after the portions were set aside for the Elder House and the Orphanage, since those who dwelt there still must be maintained - there wasn't a plentiful amount left for Haven itself. It appeared the habits of Sairsen would be extended far beyond those three weeks where they usually appeared.

Even then there was careful consideration as to who among the intended recipients might be in greater need, especially those who produced goods but not of the edible sort, and Caeide and Peter and Andrew spent considerable time conferring with the other sources of supplies to see what adjustments might be needed, who could cut into their own share to see those needs were met.

"Boy, I know there were times when it was tight, back home, but somehow, I never figured that for here. I mean, everything here always seemed so . . ." and he stopped, at a loss for words, as unlike Andrew as that might be. Still, they knew what he meant.

"Aye, Andrew, and in most years, true enough. But this is not the first lean year Haven has had, though usually that shortfall is not so widespread among the Clan enclaves."

Maudie and Marisol had finished counting what was in the pantries, in the keeping cellar, and had their figures at hand. No, it didn't look like it would be a full table at Haven for a long time, not if they intended to keep eating til the next early harvest.

"So, what do we do?" Maude asked, resigned to the fact adjustments would be made. She did love to put good solid meals on the table, but she had experienced many years of having to stretch things to a hairswidth as well. Having to choose between having supplies for that pub she'd owned in London and having a full supper for herself hadn't been all that uncommon an occurrence, after all, especially during the war.

"And, if this isn't the first time, w'at did those others do, that came before? Anything special we might take a look at?" Peter asked, taking a sip from that half-glass of whiskey. He looked at it ruefully, knowing that too would have to be rationed. He'd suffered through those Sairsen weeks, but never had the desire to inquire further, into the why of what they were eating or what else they might expect.

Caeide gave him a wry smile. "Well, for one thing, those pear culls - I found an interesting recipe for - well, I wouldn't call it whiskey or anything near to - perry, they call it. But it does appear to have served the same purpose, and the records says it is far stronger than even hard apple cider if made right. AND their recipe uses a only a tiny bit of honey, not sugar, which is good since we have a goodly supply of the former and not likely to be getting much of the latter, though the two enclaves that have the capacity there have promised to distribute from their long-term storage as best they can. It is nice to belong to a Clan that believes in thinking long-term!"

"So, as much as I am in favor of a nice drink, one cannot live by perry alone," Marisol remarked. "What else, other than what we've used in the past?"

Caeide nodded, "the records indicate there is much else. For one, we'll not be holding off harvesting the flax, as we would do for cloth; the seeds are edible, even if the varieties grown especially for that purpose are different than the ones we grow here. Still, our own CAN be used, if more difficult to harvest and a tad more difficult to work into a menu. Still, it is one more thing we would not have had otherwise. 

"And, although I do not like the thought, there are some of the stock we'd thought to carry on another year, perhaps two, for breeding, that might have to be harvested early. We will not have the feed to carry them all through in good health, and their meat will add to the larder. We will have to decide which are best to reserve for breeding stock for next year. Well, at least we have the salt shipment already in storage for preserving, and canning jars and rubbers aplenty, since Maude was wise enough to buy extra when that company was doing its sell-off.

"It will be tight going, and we will have other calls on our larder, will need to share that with others in want; we are not the only ones, here or elsewhere, having rough times.

It was several nights later that Andrew brought up the subject. Well, he'd been curious after Caeide mentioned those old records, and he'd searched them out, spent time reading the first-hand reports. And that low comment from Peter, after they'd tucked in for the night, had him thinking he needed to know more. After all, that low "bloody 'ell, Andrew, wonder that we'll make it through! Sound like we'll be living on air and rock dust!" hadn't been all that encouraging. Still, the alternative that Caeide had mentioned, her staying her to keep the place running, the others settling temporarily at one of the Enclaves not so stressed, had been immediately set aside. They were a family; they would get through this as a family.

"Gee, it says that one year, they even stopped using the candles that last month before the spring things were coming up. They saved what was left, and ended up cutting them up into little pieces to add fat to what they scraped together for food! And another year, two people died trying to take a boat out to fish. The sea was just too rough; they went over, and the sharks . . . Well, I guess that's why you say we're only to fish from the rocks along the beach, huh, Caeide?"

"Aye, Andrew, and that hasn't changed. Nets from the overhang, yes; line fishing from the rocks. But NO boats, even if some from the area still try it and might tempt you to do likewise. You are both far too precious to us to risk losing you just to avoid pulling our belts that one notch tighter! If we're down to that last notch or below by springtime, the new season will have us filling out again."

And while Peter and Andrew thought that a far too optimistic outlook for what they saw in their immediate future, there wasn't a hell of a lot they could do about it.

And it was a hard winter, and each trip to tend the stock reminded them of how many fewer were in those stalls than usual, and the same with those gathering in the corrals or pastures. 

The bourbon and whiskey ran out quickly, those usual last two stocking-up shipments not being affordable this year. Soon the first of the odd-smelling casks of perry was broached, and while it seemingly was an acquired taste, they quickly developed an acceptance, if not a liking, for it. As for tea and coffee, those were a sweet but distant memory. And each meal, each eked out of what they could manage, had them wistfully remembering the fat days they'd experienced not so long ago.

But, oddly enough, each sparse meal also had them remembering lean times that had come before, for each of them. Times they hadn't enjoyed, but had, obviously, survived. Peter and Andrew described the grim days in the camp, "and w'ile Louie did w'at 'e could, well, sometimes there wasn't anything for 'im to do WITH."

Andrew nodded. "And we had it better than the other guys, since we were the ones having to be out doing all that stuff the colonel or maybe London would come up with. Boy, what the mess hall dished up was really awful, though the guards weren't eating much better, not there at the end," he remarked over a meal of flax crackers and thin slices of cheese. That treasured glass of perry that was awaiting each of them would at least have the effect of two, with only that small bit in each of their stomachs.

There Peter would recall lean days of his youth, Andrew adding a few stories along those lines as well.

Caeide had her own remembrances, as did Maude and Marisol. Still, Caeide encouraged them one day in February, a day when their mood jointly seemed at a low ebb.

"Keep your spirits up, my dears. March is just around the corner, and the wild stuffs should be coming along soon. And I checked today and the sun has finally warmed the rock greenhouse to the point of our being able to sow greens again! I raked over the planting beds this morning, laid the dark tarp over to complete the warming, and will spread seed tomorrow once the frost is gone. That first batch of greens is always the sweetest, you know, though whether that is truly the case or only because we are so eager for that first taste, I have never decided. From then on, we'll sow every week, so something new is always coming along to tide us over. And the poultry are starting to make those special noises of theirs, the ones that say they're thinking of laying again! And while it is not right around the corner, in April the asparagus comes along, and the rhubarb should be ready to pull the first stalks then too.

Peter found his mouth watering in anticipation. "Fresh eggs over spiced greens? Fresh asparagus. Stewed rhubarb!! Blimey, that DOES sound good!"

Maudie laughed, "and isn't that first the same meal you always complained about, every time it was served up during Sairsen week?"

"True enough, Maudie, but that was then, this is now," he admitted.

"You know, we came through it alright," Andrew said in a wondering voice. "We're all still pretty healthy, if a lot thinner. The stock is alright, though they could use some extra pounds too. Everyone in the village, at the Elder House and the Orphanage, they've come through okay. We can start some of the early planting, we've got that new seed supposed to come in, and we've got what we set aside last year to give us a good start."

"Well, acourse, we came through it alright, Andrew," Peter said in a wise tone, his head high as if to say 'didn't I always say we would??!'."

Maude reached out to pop him on the back of his dark head, teasingly, for his arrogance.

He rubbed the spot, grinned sheepishly, but delivered his own take on Andrew's comments.

"Well, didn't we, Maudie? And why wouldn't we 'ave? All the comforts of 'ome we 'ad, w'en you go to think on it. Kept warm, even if the fire smelled more than odd depending on w'at we were burning, and even if we were doubling up at night. Well, you and Mari, anyway, us already doing that most times. 

"The well kept us supplied with water, along with the rain barrels, though it'll be nice to take a long 'ot shower again once that's possible. The broken branches from the orchard provided kindling for the cookstove, enough to 'ave some things 'ot, not just at room temperature. 

"And we didn't go 'ungry, not really, not enough to be gut-cramped, not like back in camp. Though, I 'ave to admit, I'm bloody tired of seaweed and cockles for breakfast, and I'd be just as pleased not to see chickweed on my plate til next Sairsen! And you won't find me discouraging you from fixing something nice for teatime again, Maudie. Once we 'AVE tea again, I mean."

And, with Ian showing up to deliver an early shipment of necessities from an Enclave that had turned the corner - whiskey, bourbon, tea, coffee, and a goodly number of other things they'd sorely missed - with the chickens deciding to start laying again - they found their optimism had been rewarded. They'd made it through, and now they knew, they could make it through should the lean times come again.


End file.
